


Break of Dawn

by littlehollyleaf



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash, Surprisingly Domestic, murderous imaginings, no actual blood though - sorry!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-09-07 22:05:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8817883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlehollyleaf/pseuds/littlehollyleaf
Summary: Sequel to Night Terrors. Oswald has an unexpectedly pleasant morning involving contemplation of breakfast and murder.(guest starring Bounty Hunter Jim Gordon)





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was pretty much just something I started tapping away at to fill the time and because I'd had a couple of requests to continue the world of Night Terrors. It took a crazy turn into fluff very early on, which has been a hell of an experiment for me because that's not my usual style at all :p Mostly I just wanted to FINISH THE THING, and so I have. Ta da.
> 
> Look out though because - absolutely everything about this is Jossed in the Actual Show at this point! Up to and including the subtextual nature of Oswald's feelings for Ed, which makes the vague fashion in which I allude to ambiguous feelings here seem very archaic now, DAMN. But I started this during the S02 summer hiatus and it seemed counter to the feel of the story to change the tone to anything more explicit.

With a lazy, full body stretch across the bed Oswald blinks awake to the caress of sunshine through his window. He lies there for long moments. First in mindless bliss, basking in the yellow heat, letting it seep deep into his skin. Then through a slow dawning of incomprehension.

Waking up since Arkham, on the few occasions he has found himself able to sleep at all, has been a dark and dismal affair on the whole. It’s been the same for months now, and even worse since his father died – violent jerks into consciousness in those black, cold hours before sunrise. Plagued by fearful visions both real and imagined (or what he hopes are imagined) that leave him sweaty and breathless with terror or shame (or both), heart racing, limbs aching from trying to fight off invisible threats.

So familiar have these nightly horrors and accompanying physical exertions become, that Oswald reaches instinctively for his bad leg in anticipation of the shock of pain along it he’s come to accept as the inevitable herald of each day. When he experiences no more than a light twinge, soon eased by a shift in position, Oswald has to wonder if this itself is a dream of some kind. At this point even if it were he would consider it a blessing more than disappointment, the novelty of a _good_ dream almost as welcome as the full and peaceful night’s sleep his current circumstance purports to be.

But the sun persists, its beam unhindered by curtains that Oswald hadn’t bothered to close (since he would be up in darkness anyway there had seemed little point), and when the scene refuses to dissolve into unreality Oswald allows himself a tentative half smile at his good fortune as he lifts himself up against the headboard. Only half a smile though, because the reason for this miraculous change to his sleeping habits remains a mystery, and as a man who prides himself on acquiring information the lack of it makes him uneasy.

He’s missing something. What is it?

Or perhaps –

Not what but _who_.

His arm reaches out to the right of the bed, but finds nothing but rumpled covers. When Oswald turns his head for a closer look he notes that the covers seem folded back a little, and when he dips his hand beneath to run his palm across the mattress he thinks he feels an indentation there.

Was there someone with him last night?

Then again, perhaps these are just signs of his own erratic movements while sleeping. He’s woken to pillows strewn across the floor, sheets twisted into knots around him and all manner of bizarre findings before after all.

Still, the emptiness at his side seems to mock him, like the answer to a question he can’t remember.

Moving his hand up to the pillows Oswald frowns when he knocks against something small and hard. Twisting round to see better he catches a glint of silver on the pillow next to him, half obscured by the covers which have been tucked around it, as though to imitate the bedfellow Oswald is missing. A quick tug exposes the blade, handle pointing down, tip resting where a man’s head would lie.

Oswald’s breath catches. Organised crime is littered with examples of melodramatic warnings like this and his heartbeat quickens at the thought of being victim to such a threat. He should be grateful, perhaps, he hasn’t woken beside a dead animal or severed body part (or the severed body part _of_ a dead animal).

But then he notices the familiar nicks and dents in the metal and realises the knife is in fact his own, and the recognition brings a memory – his own hand gripping the handle, the blade at someone’s throat. Until it wasn’t. Fear and rage and arms around him, tricking him and trapping him but with a touch so warm and gentle that after a while he hadn’t wanted to escape.

No this is not a threat or an answer or a question.

It’s a riddle.

An extension of the living and breathing one that had indeed been occupying his bed’s now empty, bar for the knife, space the night before.

If nothing else Oswald has to admit that Mr E. Nygma certainly lives up to his name.

Slowly, Oswald runs his fingertips along the blade’s edge and up to its tip, as gentle as if it were Edward himself sleeping there and he was trying not to disturb him. Is that the point? he wonders as he fingers the blade’s literal one – Ed is like the knife? Dangerous. Capable of killing Oswald if he isn’t careful. Hmm. Seems too simple. Is Oswald the knife in this little tableaux? He _is_ the one who almost slit Ed open with it. _Twice_. And likewise denied Ed the further, more recreational, taste of the blade he’d seemed so eager for during their night-time liaison. Leaving the weapon here, positioned like Oswald sleeping, may be a show of Ed’s power over him, of how Oswald’s own capacity for violence was tamed last night. Or – _or_ – they are _both_ the blade, and the positioning, propped up on the pillow with the handle angled down, is an invitation. An offer to be weapons _together_.

Or… share each other’s ‘weaponry,’ perhaps?

Oswald chuckles, shaking his head at the innuendo his wondering mind has led him to.

But is that it? Has he puzzled this out?

It would be convenient if so. He’d brought Ed here so he could make use of the man’s talents – because anyone able to incriminate Gotham’s former sweetheart Jim Gordon, even temporarily, was someone with skills Oswald didn’t want to see wasted anywhere other than in his service. And… perhaps there’d been… other reasons as well. Bright – startlingly bright – memories of shared meals and laughter, Ed’s fingers over piano keys, patterns of splattered crimson over his soft, pale, touchable skin.

If Ed wished to be a willing partner it would make things much easier. And, considering not only this latest riddle but Ed’s thorough, nigh on giddy, assistance in the past, Oswald must confess he is optimistic that this is the case.

A small pain makes him hiss and he draws his hand away, sucking a drop of blood from the finger he’d been careless enough to let the knife edge slice into.

Appropriate, Oswald thinks. A partnership with a man as intelligent yet erratic as Edward Nygma has fast proven himself, a man who can hush away tears like a mother or tear flesh with clinical precision and a gleam in his eye with scarcely a breath in-between, is bound to cause a little (or more than a little) hurt along the way.

Even so, Oswald’s lips crack into a wide, crooked smile around his throbbing finger. Because if Gotham has taught him anything it is how to suffer – pain and humiliation, both in memory and the threat of more, are what give Oswald his edge, what have shaped him from a meek little nobody, a disrespected umbrella boy, into the powerful and notorious Penguin. Yes, Ed’s comfort might be welcome, but if Oswald wants to rebuild his shattered reputation and continue to make a name for himself the pain Ed can offer him is a necessity. Oh, this could work. This could work very well indeed.

 

 ***

 

Having woken so late (well gone eleven it turns out) and with no urgent plans for the day, Oswald decides to luxuriate in his easy morning for as long as possible. He forgoes dressing, slipping instead into his gold and black patterned dressing gown and heading out bare footed. Although he does pause first for a quick brush and tidy of his hair – he’s not a savage for god’s sake.

Half an hour of searching later and he is beginning to grow weary of the impromptu game of hide and seek his house guests have apparently taken upon themselves to engage in. They are not in the study, not in the conservatory, not in the dining room and not in the breakfast room. Neither is Ed in the library or Barbara perusing the liquor cabinet in the drawing room – the two places Oswald was sure each of them would gravitate to. He is just about to give up and return to his room when he hears voices coming from, of all places, the kitchen.

“Could you not touch those please?”

“I’m making pancakes, I need eggs.”

“Well so do I.”

“You can’t need all of them.”

“Yes I – stop it! I need these four _exactly_ , can’t you find your own?”

Oswald peers around the open door to find Ed and Barbara side by side at the kitchen counter (Ed also in a dressing gown – Barbara in, rather less), an array of bowls, utensils and ingredients laid out in front of them. With their backs to him Oswald can’t make out everything his two guests have gathered besides the box of eggs over which the current debate is raging. Does he have more than the four Ed is hording? He can’t remember. Truth be told, Oswald has been avoiding the kitchen somewhat since the last… unorthodox meal he’d prepared there, not wanting to be reminded of his, thankfully brief, servitude to his step-family. Galavan’s resurrection had shocked him out of the apathy his family’s demise had left him in enough to clean up the place, but he’s been surviving largely on take-out ever since. Whatever culinary masterpiece Ed is planning (and knowing Edward Nygma it _will_ be a masterpiece, the man can’t even toast a slice of bread without devoting full scientific precision to the task), it’s anyone’s guess if the kitchen has what he needs.

“Okay, okay, fine,” Barbara relents. “I’ll see if there’s any more.”

She starts opening cupboards above them at random while Ed taps the various items collected beside the eggs, muttering under his breath.

“Four eggs, check. Butter, check. One tablespoon.” Ed opens a drawer to his right and removes a silver tablespoon, lining it up neatly beside the pack of butter he’s just checked. “One lemon, check. Sugar, check. One teaspoon.” He reaches into the drawer again, this time for a teaspoon which he dips into a bowl of (presumably) sugar. “Oh, let me know if you find any mustard,” he adds without looking up. “Spicy would be best, but plain is fine.”

The ingredients are familiar and for a moment Oswald is six years old again. He can almost feel the tickle of his mother’s apron against his cheek, his nose full of the sharp tang of lemon, snatches of old songs half hummed half sung drifting through his mind.

“Then I just need, uh…”

“Flour,” Oswald supplies, skirting round the small table in the centre of the room (the one where servants were allowed to dine once their chores were complete, as Grace had so obligingly informed him after his father’s funeral). “And cream,” he finishes as he too reaches the counter, gratified at the way the others jump and spin round at the sound of his voice.

“Hey, look who’s finally awake.” Barbara gives a theatrical wave of her hands, displaying Oswald like a magic trick to an invisible audience.

Smiling back at her is easy. Childish it may be, but Oswald enjoys the pomp. It’s hard to say how much of it is made with sincerity, but it pleases Oswald to accept the attention regardless.

Ed is more reserved.

“Mr Penguin,” he nods, hands clasped in front of himself, deferent as an actual servant. And yet, there’s a strange intimacy now in Ed’s formal use of his title. As the only one to refer to him in this fashion (the only one alive anyway), it strikes Oswald as a term of endearment as much as respect. “Good morning. I trust you slept well.”

This last is not a question and is accompanied by a twitch at the corner of Ed’s lips.

“Tolerably,” Oswald replies, not wanting to give Ed too great a sense of accomplishment. But still, credit where it is due, the man had been key to his ultimately dreamless night, so Oswald adds a quiet “thank you.”

The way Ed’s mouth stretches to a smug curve makes Oswald almost regret the praise.

“I’m making breakfast, if you want some,” Ed continues.

“So am I,” Barbara adds. “Or _trying_ to.”

There’s a pause as Ed takes a deep breath through his nose, gaze fixing straight ahead.

“Yes, you are indeed trying…” he mutters.

Barbara’s eyes grow wide, lips parting in a silent gasp.

“I heard that,” she says, but it seems to Oswald that the scandal in her tone is pitched a touch too dramatic. More theatre. Who is Barbara Kean really beneath it all? he wonders. “Perhaps if you shared your ingredients I wouldn’t –”

“I _told you_ ,” Ed snaps, turning to her with a scowl, body tensing ramrod straight. “I’m following a _particular recipe_.”

“Yes,” Oswald interrupts, already bored by the juvenile dispute. “I know the recipe. But –” His eyes narrow as Ed looks back to him. “– how do you?”

The shadow of his quarrel with Barbara lifts from Ed’s face at once and he holds up a finger, eyes sparkling.

“Oh!” He turns and snatches something off the counter behind him. “I found this –” When he spins round again there is a small notebook gripped between his thumb and forefinger. Battered, stained, yellowed with age and very _very_ familiar. “– in one of the drawers.”

Oswald grows still, a hot, churning sensation twisting in his stomach at the sight of that book in the hands of another. Hands it does _not belong_ _to_. It’s not right. Even if those hands are the gentle, delicate ones of Edward Nygma.

“Most of the recipes inside are in German, but that was easy enough to translate.” Ed continues blithely, flicking through pages with a casual abandon that makes Oswald’s shoulders bunch up, fingers twitching at his sides. “I noticed the handwriting was similar to yours, I thought perhaps it was –”

“My mother’s!” Oswald exclaims. He knows his voice is shrill. His face flushing. But try as he might there are some emotions he simply can’t contain. “Yes. Yes it was.”

After her death Gertrude’s apartment had soon been stripped, refurbished and rented out again by her unscrupulous landlord (who had no doubt pocketed some of her more expensive jewellery and knickknacks for personal profit as well – for which Oswald plans to exact painful, lingering revenge in due course). As the GCPD’s most wanted at the time, thanks to the city’s newly elected Mayor, Oswald had been powerless to stop his dear mother’s belongings being sold on or disposed of, but Gabe had managed to grab a few items for him, including Gertrude’s old recipe book. With pages full of writing in his mother’s hand, her perfume still lingering in the paper, the book was of course priceless and Oswald had taken to carrying it with him in his pocket, wanting it close at all times. Which is how he came to have it on him when he was captured and taken to Arkham, and how, incredibly, it had been returned to him along with the rest of his meagre possessions on his release.  

When tasked with cooking for the Van Dahl’s it was this book Oswald took his first meal from, much to Grace’s disdain. He’d kept the book in the kitchen since then, as it had seemed an appropriate and safe enough home for it. Until now.

Now every fibre in him wants to tear the book from Ed’s prying, interfering hands. But doing so might damage it and Oswald has so few of his mother’s things, so he settles for glaring at the other man instead.

At Ed’s side Barbara bites her bottom lip in an unsuccessful attempt to curb a smile, newly bright eyes darting between them in fascination. Meanwhile Oswald relishes the sudden silence and slack-jawed expression on Ed’s face.

“I –” Ed tries. Coughs. Then starts again. “I merely thought, you might enjoy something familiar when you woke up.”

Moving slowly, as you might approach a wild animal, Ed extends his arm, holding the book out in offering.  

When Oswald takes it, also slowly and with both hands, clutching it safe to his chest, he keeps his eyes on Ed the whole time, lips pursing together. A silent warning that Ed should think twice about touching his things (his _mother’s things_ ) ever again, because if he does it will take more than a few gentle touches and lullabies to save him from Oswald’s wrath.

But then Ed does something unexpected.

He smiles.

Not an awkward smile out of fear or nervousness, that involuntary rictus flinch that victims so often make when pleading for their lives. No, this smile is wide and warm and Ed’s eyes brim with it, his eyebrows lifting like that of a child seeking approval. Paradoxical, considering it’s a mother’s comfort he’s offering.

But in any case, it’s so disarmingly _real_ that Oswald has to stop and remind himself that this is the same man who left a knife on his pillow this morning. The same man who had, with notable collateral damage, orchestrated the arrest of Jim Gordon. The same man who had stood beside him and carved slices out of a crying Mr Leonard.

As much as he’d like Ed as a partner, Oswald can’t let his desires blind him to possible threats. For all he knows this breakfast is part of some wider scheme designed to ensnare him. Had Fish not proven how easy it was to use someone’s love for their mother against them? Could Ed be his Liza?

Or –

Or is this just the innocent kindness it seems to be?

For the first time Oswald truly understands Falcone’s reluctance to believe him about Liza’s betrayal. When you’re alone, completely alone, the need to believe someone cares for you is nigh on unbearable.

“If you’re not hungry, then I won’t,” Ed continues, voice airy and light. “Miss Kean,” he adds, turning to her and waving a hand at the counter. “You wanted some eggs?”

As Barbara reaches for her prize, bobbing her head a little around her smile in a kind of miniature victory dance, Oswald looks to the book in his hands. It is precisely as he remembers, each crease where it should be with no additional marks or fingerprints. Ed had taken good care of it at least. And it has been a long time since Oswald had a home cooked meal.

“No, wait,” he says and Barbara stops with her hand on the curve of an egg, Ed holding the cutlery drawer open again. They both turn to him, waiting.

This will count as another victory for Ed, Oswald supposes.

Fine. Let him have his victories when it suits Oswald he should. A battle won is not a war lost.

“Breakfast would be wonderful,” Oswald tells them, voice softening as more memories of his mother’s cooking begin to surface. “You know, this dish –” he nods at the ingredients on the counter, shuffling closer “– was always my favourite.” Ed closes the drawer and leans one elbow on the side, listening intently (though curiously unsurprised – could it be some fold or notation in the book had alerted him to this detail somehow? the man’s deductive skills are frankly a _menace_ at times – that the GCPD had managed to squander such a resource for so long is a true testament to their incompetence). Barbara also rests her hands on the counter and tilts her head, but Ed is by far the more captive audience, his head nodding along as Oswald speaks, urging for more. “Whenever I was sick or sad, she used to make this for me.” A small laugh hums out of him as he loses himself in memory, pictures his mother kissing wounded knees or wiping away tears with lace sleeves, then taking his hand and leading him. _Come come my little Cobblepot. I have some lemons in the kitchens._ “Sometimes, when I smell lemons, I still smile…”

Blinking, Oswald looks up to find both his guests staring at him and his cheeks grow hot. This had become, perhaps, a little too personal.

“Silly, I know.” He swipes a hand through the air in front of him, dismissive.

“No. No it’s sweet,” Barbara says. “It’s nice that you had a mother who loved you.” This time her smile is thin and a little watery. If this is another performance then it is decidedly lacking. “You’re lucky. When I got sick my mother used to tell me to grow up and get over it.”

A respectful silence follows this.

Then Oswald and Barbara find their graze drawn to Ed, as though it were somehow his turn.

“Oh, um –” Ed stammers, uncharacteristically flustered by the attention. “My mother died when I was young. And my father… well he…” He shrugs and shakes his head, hands locking and twisting together beneath his chin. “Anyway – breakfast!”

With a jerk Ed turns back to the counter, head bowing over the ingredients. His shoulders bunch into sharp, bony points beneath his dressing gown, knuckles white against the dark wood of the counter’s edge.

Interesting. Could this be a clue, at last, Oswald wonders, to solving the puzzle that is Edward Nygma? He will need to pursue this.

But later.

For now Oswald pockets his mother’s precious book and steps to Ed’s side, between him and Barbara.

“Well, if you do want to cook this, we’re going to need more eggs. And milk.”

Oswald only just catches the quiet sigh Ed makes as he loosens his grip on the counter. Yes, very interesting indeed.

“No, no.” Is Ed’s response. “The recipe clearly says –”

“I know what it says,” Oswald speaks over him. “My dear mother had many virtues. But record keeping was not one of them.”

The way Ed’s brow creases over this is, simply put – adorable.

“But, if – if the instructions are wrong then - why not correct them?”

“Because they’re not wrong,” Oswald smiles, enjoying how the answer compounds Ed’s confusion. “They’re guidelines. A meal would grow tiresome if it were the same every time. Cooking’s an art Ed, not a science.”

While Oswald was aware such a claim would be provocative, the utter, wide-eyed _scandal_ in Ed’s expression is better than he could have hoped for.

“Actually –” Ed slides a finger up the bridge of his glasses, fixing them tighter against his face. “– in my experience –”

“There should be milk in the fridge and mustard in the third cupboard from the end.” Oswald points over Ed’s shoulder, dismissing the other man’s diatribe before it can start. “I think there are more eggs in one of the cupboards opposite. Definitely flour. Oh –” He turns to Barbara. “– and you’ll find syrup for pancakes there as well.”

Barbara mutters a sugary thank you and glides away while Oswald, his instructions given, opens one of the cupboards above the counter and retrieves an empty glass bowl. After checking its cleanliness is sufficient he begins cracking the available eggs into it. The recipe calls for the eggs to be hard boiled, but Oswald has always preferred them scrambled and his mother, of course, had always indulged him. 

He waits until Ed’s next intake of breath before turning back to him, chin high, staring down the unspoken protestations. If they’re making one of _his_ favourite meals, with _his_ food, in _his_ kitchen, then they’re making it his way, or not at all. That’ll show Ed that, despite what he might think, he doesn’t have all the control here.

For a moment tension hangs in the air between them, Ed’s lips still parted ready to overthrow Oswald’s command. Then his eyes glint with some unidentifiable emotion, mouth closing round the flash of a smile.

“Right,” Ed nods, before scurrying away to search the places Oswald had listed.

As victories go it’s small. But perhaps this is what they are together – a constant battle of one-upmanship, striving to out do each other at every opportunity. The prospect is not unappealing and Oswald returns to his bowl with a grin of his own.

It doesn’t take long to lose himself to the business of whisking and seasoning. There’s something therapeutic (genuinely so, not Hugo Strange’s perversion of the concept) in narrowing his focus to one simple, menial task. It’s a calming diversion from his mind’s usual machinations. 

He’s so absorbed that it takes a while for the argument behind him to filter through.

“Spare me your disingenuous sympathies.”

“I was reaching for the syrup! I wasn’t trying to –”

“You were trying to undermine me, like you have been ever since I got here!”

“Oh, get over yourself. Why would I even bother? Besides –” A chuckle. “– you should be thanking me, you look more distinguished this way. Maybe I should knock a little more in your hair.”

“Why are you even here? And don’t pretend it’s because Oswald is your friend. You simper around him –”

“ _Simper?_ **_I_** simper? You’re the one who calls him _Mister_.” Miss Kean’s voice rises to an exaggerated staccato. “Oh _yes_ Mr Penguin, oh no Mr Penguin. Three bags full Mr Pen – ah!”

“Oh my, I’m sorry. I just thought you might like to look a little more _distinguished_.”

“You –” 

There’s a noise Oswald can’t place – a wet splattering that elicits an angry “hey!” from Ed and pealing laughter from Barbara. This is followed by a series of small thumps, cracking, muttering and chuckles, interspersed with breathless comments such as “don’t you dare!” or “stop it” and “bite me.”

With the volume rising to a level Oswald can no longer ignore he puts down the lemon and sharp, wooden handled chopping knife he’d found with a sigh.

“ _What_ are you –?”

His query is interrupted by the thwack! of something small and round hitting the side of his head as he turns. Whatever it is crumples into his hair on impact, sticks for a moment, then falls, leaving a gooey mass to dribble down his cheek and chin.

An image of Charles and Sasha, bread rolls in hand and laughing, burns in Oswald’s mind, making his blood boil.

Until the picture resolves itself into the present – Sasha’s cold sneer melting into a red faced Barbara, sucking her lips round a smile full of shock and apology, while Charles’ dim-witted mockery transforms into Ed’s sharp eyes, now wide with dismay, lips parted in a speechless O.

Beyond their, gratifying, remorse, Oswald now has a context for the sounds he’d overheard. Both Ed and Barbara’s hair is spotted powdery white, with more flour garnishing the shoulders of Ed’s dressing gown and the bare skin of Barbara’s upper arms. Ed also has a stripe of viscous, golden liquid from his lapel to his cheek with spatters of the same over one side of his glasses – from the plastic syrup bottle Barbara is clutching in her left hand Oswald assumes. But more to the point, on the central table between them and himself is an open egg box. It’s big enough to hold a full dozen but several spaces are conspicuously empty, one egg broken and spilling over the table’s surface and two more held carefully by Barbara and Ed themselves. While this means Barbara’s hands are full, one of Ed’s is empty but slightly raised, leaving little doubt what Oswald had been hit with and by whom. Though from Ed’s expression and the way Barbara is hunched over as if recently attempting to avoid something, Oswald surmises that he had not been Ed’s intended target.

“I – I didn’t –” Ed tries, voice strained.

Barbara gasps out a breath of laughter, despite pressing the back of a hand to her lips to try and stop herself.

“Oh, Ozzie, I’m sorry,” she murmurs around her knuckles. “We were just messing around.”

Both of them fall silent, waiting with bated breath, and the last vestiges of Charles and Sasha fall away. Because in truth this is the complete _reverse_ of that sorry after dinner scene. Here Oswald is not weak and victimised, he is the one with power.

“Messing around? In _my_ kitchen? With _my_ food?” he says, glowering first at Barbara, who lowers her eyes, contrite, then at Ed, who opens and closes his mouth a couple of times, like a fish out of water. An unexpected boon, Oswald reflects – it’s not the way he would have sought to gain mastery over the other man, but he’ll take it. “Well…” He turns slowly, fingers tapping along the counter towards the knife he’d discarded. For an instant he even considers it, delicious memories of the last living flesh he’d sliced and diced in this very room making his heartbeat quicken at the prospect. But then his gaze falls on the cubes of butter he’d cut for layering the saucepans and, perhaps it’s the memories of cooking with his mother unearthing infantile desires but, he finds himself drawn to a different response. “If that’s what you want then please, let me help you.”

Without another thought Oswald scoops up one of the pieces of butter and throws it in Barbara’s direction.

Although never what you’d call athletic, the regular assaults made on him have made Oswald more than adept at improvising defence, including via throwing anything and everything to hand in the way of his attackers. Such experience might not get him a spot on any self-respecting baseball team any time soon, but it does see his buttery projectile land neatly on Barbara’s forehead and even smear her nose a little as it falls.

All of them gasp. Then break into breathless smiles at the absurdity. Barbara herself included.

“You’re taking _his side?_ ” she exclaims, waving her bottle of syrup behind her at Ed’s now smirking form.

“There’s only one side I care about,” Oswald answers, hand already creeping back across the counter. “My own.”

In the instant of grabbing the other cut of butter Oswald catches a familiar gleam of excitement in Ed’s eyes, the purity of it for once in keeping with the innocent mischief about to take place. He aims his next throw at the side of Ed’s face, as a retaliation of sorts for the egg on his own, but Ed not only ducks away but uses the move to rush up behind Barbara and crack his remaining egg squarely on top of her head. She squeals.

And their commitment to the thing begins in earnest.

Before long the kitchen is a war zone of edible missiles. The syrup gives Barbara an advantage for a while as the most effective long range weapon, but is soon depleted (though not before Ed and Oswald have both suffered sticky hits a plenty!). But the tide turns in Oswald’s favour when he reaches the fridge and discovers a near full can of whipped cream.

By this point the egg box is empty and table, floor and even some parts of the walls are coated or dripping with a variety of liquid and mush, including Oswald’s seasoned egg mixture – Ed had grabbed the bowl of it in triumph while Oswald was raiding cupboards for ammunition, only to have a well timed hit from Barbara of overly ripe tomato cause him to slop most of it, useless, over his slippers.

A few squirts of cream had seen Ed and Barbara both attempt to hide behind the table, which had been tipped on its side by Ed early on as a means of cover, and Oswald is just creeping around one side when the crunch of a fallen eggshell alerts him to a presence behind him. He whips round to find Ed poised with a carton of milk raised above his head – somehow he must have circled around the other side of the table when Oswald wasn’t looking.

Spraying the cream high Oswald manages to cover both Ed’s lenses in a single swipe and Ed stumbles back with a shout, flailing arms indicating that the cream has successfully blinded him for the moment. Oswald lunges at him, intending to grab the milk for himself, but instead his bare feet slip on the wet floor and he falls forward instead, crashing into Ed with enough momentum to make the other man lose his balance and start to topple. There’s a moment of grace where, seemingly in defiance of all natural laws, they hold still – Ed clutching Oswald’s lapels, Oswald with a palm to Ed’s chest. Then Ed drops, first to his ass and then his back, Oswald pulled down with him, cream and milk flying from their hands.

Even through his grunt of pain Ed is laughing, and he continues to do so as he pushes his dirty glasses up his forehead. Much of his wet and sticky hair gets ruffled up by the move, leaving it poking out at odd angles around the frames and Oswald realises he is laughing too.

Laughing at how ridiculous all this is.

Laughing at how _easy_ it all is.

Laughing so hard his body shakes with it and he has to grip Ed’s side to steady himself, palm growing wet from the sopping fabric where the milk must have spilt as they fell. Milk and god knows what else. And surely Oswald’s expensive silk gown must be in a similar state, but he doesn’t even _care_.

Because – because he’s _happy_.

He’s covered in uncooked food and fallen, undignified, on the filthy ground, and he’s _happy_ about it! Not shamed or embarrassed or disrespected.

So this is what it’s like, he thinks in a flash of clarity between laughs, to be accepted by your peers. To actually enjoy their company.

Who knew?

“You –” Ed gasps. “You can take me by right or take me by force, but one moment of me doesn’t mean I’ll stay yours.”

Their laughter dies down, heavy breaths mingling in the (very small amount) of air between them.

“W – what?”

A sudden dizziness hits Oswald – as if he’s looking down on Ed from far away. Is this – is this a threat? _Now?_ But Ed is still grinning, boyish dimples in his cheeks.

“Victory,” Ed continues round a final, breathless, laugh. “I concede. You win.”

A riddle. Of course.

“Do I now?” There’s a blot of cream just to the right of Ed’s lips, melting into gold as it mixes with the syrup already glazing his skin. “And what is my prize?”

Ed’s grin dips, just a fraction, his pupils growing to the same wide, hungry circles from the night before. It’s the kind of look Oswald has never even fantasised about receiving, because he never saw the point. He knows the kind of man he is – even before Fish crippled him he knew he was never going to turn heads or win hearts. And he was always fine with that. The whole business seemed more trouble than it was worth, honestly.

But now here is Ed, looking at him like this.

Oswald thinks he could live a thousand lifetimes and never find another man like Edward Nygma.

With slow, precise movements, Oswald lifts a hand to Ed’s face, scoops up the drop of cream with his thumb and licks it clean.

“I don’t accept your surrender,” he says, smirking at the erratic rise and fall of Ed’s exposed chest. “I suspect it comes with ulterior motives. I say we call this a draw.”

It’s only when his arm starts to throb that Oswald realises Ed has been gripping it this whole time, now pinching tight enough to bruise. The thought of that physical reminder of this moment lasting for days to come, of Ed literally leaving his mark on him, sends a hot flush up and down Oswald’s body. Particularly down.

“Oooooor –” a voice pipes up above them, breaking the spell. They turn as one to find Barbara gazing down at them, hands behind her back. “– isn’t the winner the last one standing? In which case –” She raises an arm and holds her hand, fingers splayed, beneath her chin, head tilted at an angle. “– c’est moi!” She giggles. “And to the victor…” With a cocky grin she brings her other arm forward to reveal Oswald’s lost can of cream. “The spoils!”

Nose crinkling as she giggles some more, Barbara aims the can –

Only to have the loud, melodic chime of the mansion’s doorbell echoing through the hallway stop her in her tracks.

 

 ***

 

The bell rings again (the third time now) as Oswald reaches the front door. He stops, pulling the silk cord of his dressing gown tighter about his waist and swiping a flattened palm down his hair in frantic jerks. With Ed and Barbara’s help he’d managed to towel off most of the gunk, but his gown is still appallingly stained and his hair unpleasantly flat.

To be facing an unknown visitor, in his own home no less, in such a state of undress is a vulnerability Oswald finds almost physically painful, skin crawling at the discomfort. What was he thinking staying in his bedclothes all this time?

He prays that it’s Butch at the door, back from another pathetic vigil at the side of comatose Tabitha Galavan and having forgotten the way to the servants’ entrance again.

But the leather-clad figure Oswald opens the door to is not Butch Gilzean.

“Jim!”

Face lighting with a smile practically Pavlovian in how immediately it follows the sight of the former detective, Oswald’s first thought is a giddy – Jim Gordon, come to see me at home! Followed quickly by a panicked – Jim Gordon, come to see me at home! The same home he is currently harbouring a wanted criminal in and hadn’t attempted to hide beyond giving Ed and Barbara a short ‘stay here’ as he left the kitchen.

“Oswald.”

The sound of his name on Jim’s lips brings a familiar rush of joy, despite the phantom pain tingling up his arms – memory of the rough and merciless tugs of Arkham orderlies as they dragged him away, Jim watching on impassive.

“So it’s true,” Jim continues, looking beyond Oswald into the hallway. “You really did inherit the place. God, is that wood hand carved?”

He points at the staircase, moving into the doorway as though to get a closer look and Oswald, still acting on some old, outdated instinct, steps aside to let him in. Jim walks with brisk strides to the bottom of the stairs, leaving a waft of fresh leather and sweat in his wake. But as much as Oswald admires the combination, it doesn’t intoxicate him enough that he misses the professional once over Jim gives the hall, eyes picking out the various rooms and passageways leading off it.

“Please, won’t you come in,” Oswald says in flat, clipped tones, smile dissolving.

In contrast Jim’s grin stretches wide.

“Nice place. Wanna give me a tour?”

“As delightful as that would be,” Oswald answers, only partly insincere. “Now is not the best time.” He indicates his soiled gown with a wave of both hands. “As you can see, I was not expecting visitors.”

But Jim isn’t fazed. On the contrary the way he holds himself, shoulders tight with barely suppressed energy, speaks of a man on a mission. And Oswald knows well that when Jim Gordon is on a mission he is not easily swayed.

“You look great,” Jim tells him. “Surely you can make time, for an old friend?”

The audacity surprises a breathless laugh out of Oswald. As a manipulative tactic the words fall flat – the tone lacks the necessary depth, falling instead just shy of mocking. But for Jim to attempt to play on Oswald’s affections for him at all is something new, a further step from the unyielding, ofttimes hypocritical, ‘white knight’ persona Jim had clung to for so long. A shadow of the rush of pride he’d felt watching Jim pull the trigger on Galavan flutters about Oswald’s chest.

“C’mon. It won’t take long, right?” Jim pushes, flashes of white teeth showing through the continuing, and delicious, devil may care curve of his lips.

“Perhaps if you came back another day?” Oswald tries, realising too late that he has shifted in front of the doorway into the dining room, unconsciously trying to block Jim from it, and from its inner doors leading to the kitchen.

Jim’s keen eye of course catches the move and before Oswald can protest he is through the doorway and pacing around inside.

“But I’m just dying to see the place!” Jim calls over his shoulder.

If you’re not careful, Oswald thinks as he hurries after the other man, you will be.

“Amazing fireplace!” Jim enthuses, tapping the mantelpiece. “Original fittings? Impressive.”

“Yes, thank you, but –”

“What’s through here?”

Jim points to the inner door that leads through the small storage and preparation room (where Oswald had discovered the incriminating brandy decanter Grace had failed to dispose of) and on into the kitchen. Without waiting for an answer Jim opens the door and steps in.

“Jim! _Jim Gordon!_ ” Oswald cries after him, hoping to offer his guests at least some warning.

When he bursts into the kitchen several painful, limping steps later he expects to find some kind of standoff at best, at worst to find Ed with a red stained knife in hand, Jim in a pool of blood at his feet. Or perhaps he has the best and worst of those scenarios confused.

Instead he finds Jim standing, alone, beside the now upright kitchen table.

That Ed and Barbara had clearly ignored his instructions and left is both vexing in its disrespect and an undeniable blessing at present. But still, the mess left by the three of them remains, and the chances of Jim letting it pass without question is slim.

“Perhaps my information is out of date,” Oswald says, limping to the far side of the table to address Jim face to face across it. “Did they pass a new law and a warrant is no longer necessary to search a man’s home without permission?”

“Oh but, you invited me in, didn’t you?” Jim shrugs, lips curled at the corner in a way that can only be termed sly.

Oswald chuckles and shakes his head. Yes, very good.

“You redecorating?” Jim continues before Oswald can say anything else (like asking him to leave, for instance), waving a hand at the spatters of food on the tabletop and walls.

“Breakfast,” Oswald answers. “I’m a terrible cook.”

“Lot of food for one person.”

“I was very hungry.”

“What were you making?”

“Jim.” Oswald lifts a hand, holding it still between them like a physical barrier against further questioning. “While I am duly impressed with your growing flexibility in matters of legality – truly, it warms my heart. Perhaps it would be easier for both of us if you told me why you’re really here.”

At last Jim’s smile drops.

“Okay,” he nods. “You’re right, enough games. Where is he?”

“Who?”

“Nygma.”

Oswald drops his hand, tilts his head and frowns.

“You mean Ed?” It’s not his most effective performance, but then it doesn’t have to be. He’d always known he would be a suspect in Ed’s escape – the important thing, as with most crimes in Gotham, wasn’t seeming innocent, it was not being found guilty. “He’s in Arkham, isn’t he? I thought you had him arrested.”

The way Jim sighs and folds his arms puts Oswald back at ease, because it means he is the one in control now. Jim can’t search further without Oswald’s say and he knows it.

“He escaped Arkham two weeks ago,” Jim all but growls. “Hasn’t been seen since.”

“Oh my,” Oswald gasps, putting a hand to his heart and leaving his mouth open just a touch longer than necessary for extra drama. “Well that is just shocking news. Though I don’t see why you would think to find him here.”

With a scoff and shake of his head Jim moves to the end of the table and forward – trying to get close enough to intimidate no doubt. Oswald denies him the satisfaction by moving round and forward himself until they are face to face.

“Cut the act,” Jim tells him, glaring down. “You two are friends. If he isn’t here then you know where he is.”

Oswald flattens his lips and shrugs, glaring up.

“We were friends, yes. Briefly,” he answers. “No longer I’m afraid.”

With that, he shifts around Jim and moves to the open door, intending to lead the other man casually back to and out of it and end this tiresome song and dance.

Except half way there he stops, rooted to the spot in shock.

Edward Nygma is standing plain as day to the right of the kitchen doorway, back flattened against the wall, shoulder pressed against the far edge of the door that must have hidden him from view when Jim and Oswald came in.

As Oswald stares, dumbfounded, Ed gives a one-shouldered shrug. His lips flatten in what might be apology or might be a request for homicide, the cloudy lenses of Ed’s cleaner but still cream coated glasses make the subtleties of his expression hard to read.

“Really?” Jim’s scepticism is followed by a soft creak of leather as he unfolds his arms.

Not sure if he is trying to protect Jim or Ed or just save himself the trouble of cleaning yet more blood off the floor, Oswald leaps forward and yanks the door open wider, hiding Ed from view. He twists round, one hand still gripping the flat edge of the door, the other rubbing down the side of his bad leg to try and ease the flare of pain caused by the move. He’s just in time to see Jim turn to face him.

“Hmmm,” Oswald nods, a little too quickly. “Yes. After the whole Galavan business, you know, we rather lost touch. I haven’t heard from him in months.”

Eyes narrowing, Jim steps towards the door.

There’s a glint of silver in the corner of Oswald’s eye and he glances to the now shadowed space Ed is trapped in, polished oak just shy of squashing the other man’s nose. The rise and fall of Ed’s chest has grown quick, fingers tightening at his side around the handle of the chopping knife he must have held behind his back. Homicide and not apology then. Since it was Oswald who told Ed to stay in the kitchen he supposes Ed technically has nothing to apologise for and in truth it is satisfying to know Ed had obeyed him.

“Huh,” Jim mutters as he reaches Oswald, looking him up and down. Oswald swallows and lifts his chin in what he hopes is a suitably nonchalant fashion. “That’s what he told me as well. Said that you promised to reform and he cut ties when you returned to your criminal ways.”

“Did he?” Oswald answers, shuffling closer to the door’s edge in an attempt to block the gap between door and wall further from Jim’s view. “Well, there you go. Now if you don’t mind –”

“I didn’t believe him either,” Jim adds. “Though your performance is much more convincing. His story was somewhat, over theatrical.”

There’s a shock of movement at Oswald’s side followed by an affronted gasp that Oswald begins coughing viscously to cover up.

Jim blinks and stakes a step back.

“Are you – are you alright?” he asks as Oswald continues to splutter. “Do you, um, need some water?”

He takes a couple of steps towards the sink and any other time Oswald might have been touched by the show of concern. As it is, Oswald’s only thought is that the sink is behind him, and anyone standing at it need only turn their head for a clear view of both sides of the open door.

In panic, Oswald turns to see if there is any other way to conceal his friend, only to find Ed has moved closer to the door’s edge, knife held at shoulder height, ready to strike. He lifts an eyebrow at Oswald, tongue darting out to lick his lips, shoulders bunching in excitement.

“No!” Oswald snaps and the ferocity stops Jim from taking his next step. Both men stare at him with wide eyes from either side of the door.  “No,” Oswald repeats, quieter, forcing a smile at Jim while Ed drops his head back, eyes rolling. Jim had a point about him being theatrical. “I’m fine,” Oswald continues, tapping his chest and giving a final couple of smaller, quieter coughs. “Just a… a touch of… bronchitis. Nothing to worry about.”

“Right…”

Jim’s eyebrows draw together as he steps back, which is hardly surprising. Oswald is rapidly losing control of this situation, his deceptions growing weak. It would take a truly awful detective to _not_ be suspicious. Fortunately, the idea of the GCPD’s wanted man hiding a mere three feet away behind a single plain of wood is so ludicrous that Oswald thinks he has a few moments yet before the fact occurs to Jim.

“Anyway, I am very sorry to hear about Ed. I hope you find him. Perhaps you could try some of his other friends? Now –”

“His other friends.” The chuckle Jim gives is dry, like Oswald has made a bad pun undeserving of laughter. “Good one.”

Thrown by this, Oswald just blinks.

“He was at the GCPD for several years, surely he has some?”

“Killing and framing your co-workers, including your girlfriend, tends to burn a lot of bridges,” Jim answers, voice growing hard, eyes like flint. “But the truth is, Ed was always a loner before you. He has nowhere else to go.”

This is meant as a warning, to unnerve him by making it clear Jim _knows_ Oswald was part of Ed’s escape and he’s not going to stop until he has both of them cuffed and shipped back to Arkham, or wherever. But tame threats like this are nothing but playground taunts in comparison to some of the others Oswald has endured, so it’s easy to shake off and focus instead on the rest of Jim’s claim.

It’s not that he thought Ed was popular in his old job – his hobbies and general demeanour were more than enough to imply otherwise. But Oswald had assumed Ed _was liked_ by others as opposed to simply tolerated. He’d had a girlfriend after all and hadn’t Ed mentioned something about double dates one time during one of his flowery reminisces of darling Miss ‘love of my life’ Kringle?

True, being convicted of murder, including of a cop, was likely to have quashed any lingering good feelings towards him at the GCPD. Even the dirtiest police tended to get funny about the death of their own. But the idea that there had been _no_ good feelings towards Ed in the first place is news to Oswald. Not exactly surprising, but news nonetheless.  

A flick of his eyes notes that Ed has lowered his knife now, his own gaze downcast, free hand reaching across his body to clasp his upper arm. It’s a folding in on himself Oswald is all too familiar with – an instinctive shying away from the scorn of others, or from the oppressive truth of your own loneliness. How many times has Oswald stood in that exact position outside school lunch halls or Fish Mooney’s club, watching everyone else live their lives without him?

This would be why Ed never talked much about his life at the GCPD then, beyond extolling the virtues of Miss Kringle or singling out specific morons to criticise (like the M.E. prior to Miss Thompkins, or Detective Bullock).

Something hot wells up inside Oswald and he finds himself speaking again in a rush.

“Yes, well, I suppose you would think that. Your idea of friendship is a little… unconventional.”

“What?” Jim scowls, voice dropping by at least two octaves. Usually a warning sign – a glimpse of Jim’s darker, more dangerous self. But in this moment the change seems comic, a poor shadow of Ed’s bright-eyed, boyish and all too real lust for murder on the other side of the door. It’s the shallow, insubstantial act of how someone _thinks_ darkness should be, when the truth is they have been too scared to do more than peek through the keyhole into their own, let alone open themselves up to it.

“What I mean is,” Oswald continues, undaunted. “Ed may have had lots of friends. Perhaps he even considered you one, but you just didn’t see it.” He can feel Ed’s eyes on him now, but Oswald keeps his focus on Jim. “What you expect from friendship is quite different to what the rest of us do, after all.”

“What I expect?” Jim repeats, lips curling in disbelief, or possibly disgust, or both. It’s a look Oswald would have been mortified to receive from him once upon a time, but now fills him with an odd sense of pride. “All I _expect_ from a friend is basic decency. Like not murdering someone and having your ‘friend’ falsely incarcerated for it!”

The rise of Jim’s voice makes the silence that follows all the colder.

Oswald waits for the error in Jim’s impassioned claim to dawn on the other man, but Jim only stands there thin lipped and judgemental, eyes burning with that galling self-righteousness Barbara has often derided. Until eventually, mouth twisting in a mockery of a smile, Oswald is forced to admit that Jim honestly doesn’t see the hypocrisy.

“You know it’s funny, Jim,” he says, cheeks aching as his grin locks in place. “But there was a time when I expected the same.” He gives a breathless, mirthless laugh. “But I guess some friends can’t even manage basic decency like that.” He leans forward, raising his eyebrows to punctuate his final words, and their implicit accusation. “Can they?”

When the penny drops Jim at least has the good grace to look down. Oswald hopes it’s shame stopping him from meeting his eye, Jim’s Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows because his throat has grown dry with it, but he’ll accept discomfort.

There’s a flicker at his side.

Ed lifting the knife again, casually resting the point on the finger of his free hand and twisting so it catches the light.

A gentle reminder that he has the weapon ready.

With Jim looking away, Oswald twists to face Ed properly and finds something different in his gaze this time. Small wrinkles at the corner of Ed’s eyes and gentle creases across his brow that weren’t there before. While it doesn’t lessen his intensity, it does reduce the mania a little. But it’s not until Ed flicks his wrist, offering the knife again, this time with an inquisitive tilt of his head as opposed to wide-eyed glee, that Oswald recognises the expression. It’s gratitude. For Oswald speaking up for him.

Oswald supposes that, like himself, Ed has had few people in his corner in life.

This new offer then, of the blade and all that comes with it, is no longer just about satisfying Ed’s own desires – Jim has become a gift for them to share. A means of fulfilling Ed’s bloodlust and giving Oswald too a taste of revenge for all the slights and suffering he has endured because of Jim Gordon over the years. Another Mr Leonard, as it were.

There would be no burlap sack over the head of Mr Gordon though, no. Oswald would want to see his face as they carve into him, look him in the eyes as he screams. Would he cry? Now that would be a sight to behold. How much pain would it take to break down those macho barriers and have the great Jim Gordon sobbing?

It’s not the first time Oswald has imagined such delights. Envisioning ways to make Jim bleed had been vital to his survival back at Arkham. Well, until it hadn’t.

This is, however, the first time desire has been matched with opportunity.

He’s already sucking his bottom lip in contemplation before his conscious mind has caught up.

Can they?

No, wrong question. The knife, Ed’s toothy smile, the two of them against lonesome, unaware Jim is proof enough that they _can_.

Should they?

The thrill of sharing a kill with Ed had been undeniable. Just the memory of Ed’s laughter at Mr Leonard’s muffled screams makes Oswald’s heartbeat quicken, cheeks flushing as he recalls how their red slick fingers had tangled together as they worked to untie the sack enough to expose the man’s throat. And of course any pleasure from that little game would be doubled with a victim they both know.

How would Ed look when each cut brought with it the added rush of vengeance? How would his sweet, sing-song voice sound when making personal taunts? Would his hands shake? Breath coming in gasps as all his careful control finally snapped?

All this and more Oswald wants, suddenly and desperately, to _know_. And the answers are so very, tantalisingly close.

“Enough,” Jim is saying. “I won’t stand here and be lectured by a – what are you smiling at?”

Oswald jerks round to find Jim staring at him, eyes flicking from his face to the door and back again.

Was he smiling?

Why yes, yes he was – ear to ear, with a low chuckle rumbling up his throat.

It seems his decision has been made.

“I was just thinking, Jim,” Oswald replies. “Now that you are no longer with the GCPD, how very, very _alone_ you must be.”

He takes a sidestep away from the door to give Ed room to dash around it, wondering where his friend will strike. If it were him he’d lunge for the neck – being cornered does tend to overwhelm him with visions of red. But Ed, he thinks, will keep his cool and find some more sensible, non-lethal spot to attack, striking with fast, clinical precision, to ensure their following play will last as long as possible.

Jim is tense now, hand twitching at his side. Oswald lifts his chin to nod at Ed, warning him to move fast before Jim can reach his gun. But before he can –

“Ozzieeeeeeee!”

The cry is so out of place it holds everyone still.

“Ozzie, I’ve got the whipped cream, and I found some cherries! Did you wanna – oh!”

Barbara saunters through the doorway like she hasn’t a care in the world. She’s cleaned herself up some, slipped on a new negligee (baby pink this time) and applied a subtle hint of rouge to her cheek and lips. A smattering of egg remains here and there, however, but in places more artful than accidental – the dip of her collarbone, the inside of her thigh, kneaded into her hair so parts of it clump together in surprisingly attractive shapes. The effect is one of artistic dishevelment and the can of cream and jar of glacier cherries compliment the air of debauchery nicely.

Oh, Oswald thinks. So they do have cherries.

“Hi Jim,” Barbara simpers. “Didn’t know you were coming.”

Jim gawps at her, suspicions about the other side of the door forgotten.

“B-Barbara? What…?”

His question trails off, ending in a gasp, as though he hopes to breathe it back in so he won’t have to face the answer.

“What am I doing here?” Barbara finishes with a smirk, lifting both hands and the various items within them in a shrug. “Well, you know they re-sold my apartment while I was in Arkham.” She gives Jim a lingering look over her shoulder as she walks past. “Ozzie here –” She stops at the edge of the door to lean over and ruffle Oswald’s hair. Before Oswald can even begin to feel affronted she is pushing the whipped cream into his hands and continuing. “– is letting me stay with him while I find somewhere new.” She twists the jar open as she talks and scoops out a cherry. “Isn’t he the best?” she chirps, placing the fruit delicately between her teeth.

The next few moments pass in a blur. First the light dims as Barbara leans down, casting shadows over Oswald’s face, then he tastes sweetness as the sugary flesh of the cherry is kissed into his mouth, soft hands splayed against his cheeks.

It seems to take an eternity, the ruined fruit crushing over his tongue as Barbara worries it with her own. As his mental faculties return Oswald lifts his arms, thinking he should push her away, but recalls the thin and flimsy nature of her attire and stops his hands before they reach her body, suddenly nervous to touch, nervous of how it might be misinterpreted (though by whom he couldn’t say).

Then, mercifully, Barbara pulls away with a satisfied hum.

She meets his eye for a moment and chuckles, but Oswald is still too dazed to do anything but swallow the remains of the cherry and stare.

Once he’s recovered enough to blink his vision back into focus he finds his own shock amplified on either side of the door.

Deer in headlights doesn’t even begin to convey the matching, open-mouthed astonishment writ large across Jim and Ed’s faces. But while Jim staggers back, eyes shining in horror, Ed purses his lips, tilting his head to assess Barbara with a hard, unblinking gaze Oswald is curious to note as predatory.

The reactions do much to bolster Oswald from the shock of Barbara’s assault and he finds himself smiling again – who would have thought that being intimate with someone would have such a dramatic, emotional effect on two of the most meaningful people in his life to date.

“So, Jim…” Barbara drapes herself against the edge of the door, lifting an arm above her head and arching her back like a cat away from the latch. “Did you wanna stay for breakfast?”

She holds out the jar of cherries and bites her lip, but Jim is already shaking his head.

He gives one last, quick, panicked glance around the kitchen, the widening of his eyes telling Oswald a new and wholly unwanted explanation for the chaos has completely overwhelmed him.

“No I – I was just leaving,” Jim stammers.

“Oh,” Barbara pouts. “Did you want me to walk you out?”

“No. No, I know the way.” Jim takes a step back, head turning from Barbara to Oswald in wonderment. “Oswald. I’ll… I’ll come back, some other time,” he nods, before scampering off into the next room and beyond.

Barbara peels herself off the door and pops another cherry into her mouth with a smirk.

“No he won’t,” she murmurs as she chews, words punctuated by the slamming of the front door.

Clever girl, Oswald thinks, finally recognising the strategy behind her antics.

“He might not, but someone will, he’s certain to pass on his suspicions,” Ed says, stepping from his hiding place with a frown. “We should have just killed him,” he adds, waving the knife. Rather petulantly, in Oswald’s opinion.

“No... No, Dead cops are troublesome,” Oswald responds. “Barbara’s plan was the more… elegant solution.”

He smiles his approval at her and Barbara scrunches her nose up in delight. Ed on the other hand tuts and shakes his head.

“He’s not even a cop anymore,” he mutters. “Just some kind of Private Detective. You said it yourself, Oswald - he was alone, no backup, no one to know he was here. Nothing to trace his death back to us. We –”

“You’re forgetting his lapdog, Harvey,” Barbara interjects.

“Yes, exactly,” Oswald nods. “As inept as Detective Bullock may be, he could well have rallied the troops against us. And even if they found nothing, the attention would be… inconvenient.” Oswald nods again, pushing the lingering images of Jim bloody and screaming back to the recesses of his mind. “No, it is better for us if Jim Gordon remains alive. For the moment.”

Ed scoffs, hand still holding the knife shaking in a seemingly unconscious display, or suppression, of emotion, causing the flat of the blade to tap faster and faster against his upper arm.

“Your hatred of the man is blinding you, Ed,” Oswald snaps, impatient with the overreaction.

The scathing laughter Ed answers with does little to ease Oswald’s growing fury.

“ _Please_ ,” Ed spits, holding still as he pivots his head from Barbara to Oswald while he speaks. “When it comes to James Gordon, I am the most clear-headed of anyone in this room!”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Oswald growls, taking an angry step towards Ed and regretting it almost at once when Ed looks coolly down at him.

Because Oswald knows _exactly_ what Ed means. He has been tormented by conflicting feelings about Jim ever since he met the man and is intensely aware of the debilitating effect Jim Gordon has on him. The saving grace of the whole thing is that, unlike Barbara who wears her lingering love and obsession like a badge of honour, Oswald has kept his feelings shrouded, secret and unspoken. Easier to dismiss them that way. But one word from Ed now could end that illusion, expose the painful truth and leave Oswald broken in the face of it.

It’s Barbara who acts once again as unlikely saviour, ending the stand off by slipping between them.

“Now, now boys,” she smiles, smooth as honey. “We’re all friends here.”

While this doesn’t break the tension, it does divert Ed’s attention to Barbara, which calms Oswald a little.

“Yes,” Ed mutters, adjusting his glasses so he can better focus on his new target. “ _Friends_.”

There’s a heaviness to the tone Oswald can’t place. A warning, or –

“Oh Eddie,” Barbara answers, blithe in the face of Ed’s severity. “Don’t be jealous.” She leans forward and for a second Oswald thinks she’s going to kiss Ed like she did him and the thought burns his anger all up, a different fire raging in its place. But she just pats Ed’s cheek. “You’ll get your chance.”

Barbara glances over her shoulder before Ed can respond, lifting an eyebrow at Oswald, and Ed follows her gaze. When Ed’s eyes find him it’s no longer anger Oswald sees in them either.

“Anyway,” Barbara shrugs, stepping away. “I need a shower. Raincheck on breakfast, okay?”

She gives a quick wave and then she’s gone, leaving a bemused stillness in her wake, a lingering flavour of cherries in the air.

The quiet settles into something almost companionable, Ed and Oswald united again like survivors of a whirlwind, petty disputes obliterated by the force of nature that is Barbara Kean.

“She is something, isn’t she?” Oswald comments.

“Yes,” Ed concedes, but follows up with a sharp – “but can she be trusted?”

The naivety of the question makes Oswald chuckle – Ed can be so commanding, it’s easy to forget how inexperienced he is sometimes.

“My dear Ed,” Oswald smiles up at him. “I don’t even know if _you_ can be trusted.”

Ed blinks down at him, first in surprise, then, slowly, a long grin snakes its way across his face.

“Touché.”

“If you want to be part of this life,” Oswald continues. “You need to learn that it’s never about trust. When I found Barbara Kean she was alone. Lost. I gave her safety and security. In return she does things for me. Favours. Acquires information. I don’t have to trust _her_ to trust our arrangement.”

Ed nods along, tongue darting out to wet his still lightly sugared lips as he ponders this.

“And…” he starts. “If she were to become… dissatisfied with your _arrangement_?”

“Then –” Oswald lifts a shoulder “– we would have to… renegotiate.” He lingers on the word, grinning round every syllable, eyes dropping for a moment to the blade still in Ed’s hands so all possible variants of negotiation are made clear. A short breath of understanding escapes the ever growing curve of Ed’s mouth. “That’s just how the game is played.”

“Is that what this is?” Ed presses, eyes bright again. “A game?”

“It’s all a game,” Oswald tells him, giddy all of a sudden at finding himself in the role of mentor, Ed once more the eager child. “There’s always someone trying to make you their pawn. The trick is to make sure you’re the one controlling the board.”

Then Ed lifts his chin to better look Oswald up and down, arms unfolding so he can fondle the knife as he thinks and their roles change again just like that, Oswald no longer a mentor but a curiosity under a microscope. And yet Oswald doesn’t feel diminished so much as flattered by the attention.

“Well then,” Ed holds the blade still, the point pressing into his other palm. “If we are all pieces on your board… which one am I?”

Oswald opens his mouth, ready to offer something flattering, to claim Ed as his queen of course, or perhaps a dark knight as a counterpart to Jim. But then he remembers Ed intruding, unbidden, into his bedroom, remembers the artful positioning of the blade on his pillow, and the words shrivel on his tongue.

“No,” he finds himself answer instead. “No, you might be on my board but… I don’t think you’re mine. I think… you have your own game to play.”

The way Ed breathes in, pupils dilating, tells Oswald this was precisely the right thing to say.

“Really?” Perhaps it’s wishful thinking but Oswald fancies Ed a touch breathless. “If that’s so then why free me from Arkham? Why bring me here? Seems… risky.”

Which is the truth of it, isn’t it? It’s about taking the risk as much as having it pay off.

“Perhaps…” Oswald stops to take a breath, apparently a little short of air himself. “Perhaps I hoped we could play together?”

There’s that gleam in Ed’s eyes again, face cracking as his smile moves up and up. Unnerving, and utterly irresistible.

“My dear Penguin,” Ed says, stepping just that little bit too close. “If you want to play with me –” he bends down and takes one of Oswald’s hands, pressing the handle of the knife into it and cupping Oswald’s knuckles and fingers in both of his own “– you only need to ask.”

The moment stretches on, a thousand possibilities bursting into life with every second, and when Ed speaks again it’s all Oswald can do to hear him over the rush of blood in his ears.

“Now, I should probably clean myself up as well…”

An unpleasant cold sets in as Ed lets Oswald go and turns into the doorway.

“Where’s the nearest bathroom?” he asks over his shoulder.

“I’ll show you,” Oswald answers. Too quickly. But when Ed smirks at him in response he can’t bring himself to care.

He takes a step towards the kitchen counter, stretching his arm to deposit the knife there. Then stops. A glint of light flashes off the metal, as it had off his switchblade last night under Ed’s yearning eye.

After coming so close to using it on Jim, it does seem a shame to deny the blade a taste of blood.

“Follow me,” he says, turning back to where Ed is waiting for him.

Then, with a smile, he leads them out together, weapon in hand.

 

  

~ **fin** ~


End file.
